Phil Morgan paid no attention to what his mates were talking about. The peaceful English landscape charmed his eye. Down the gently sloping road which, after a mile or so, led into the Upper Town, as it was called in distinction from the port, or Lower Town, the stone cottages--some almost hidden by vines--stood sentinel-wise along the way. One rather larger house was a schoolhouse. Nothing at all like the schoolhouses in America in appearance. But Phil Morgan knew it was a schoolhouse, and that the school was in session, for he had seen the children filing in not long before and their voices had been raised in song just before Frenchy had begun to note the different flowers. The excited chatter of the other boys finally aroused Morgan from his contemplation of the peaceful scene. In the other direction, toward which his mates were looking, the outlook was not so peaceful. At least, not at one particular spot in the hedge-bordered road. It did not need a sailor’s weather eye to see that the situation was “squally.” The “deep-sea crab,” the presence of which Ikey had announced, proved on further examination to be two individuals, not one. But they were closely attached to one another and the way they “wee-wawed,” as Torry said, from one side of the road to the other, certainly would lead to the supposition that intoxication was the cause of such tacking from hedge to hedge. “And one of ’em’s one of our own garbies,” declared Frenchy. “Isn’t that a shame?” “But look at that big feller, will you?” gasped Ikey. “Why, he must weigh a ton!” “You’re stretching that a bit, Ikey,” admonished Whistler, breaking off in his tune to speak. “But he is a whale of a man.” “Biggest garby I ever saw,” breathed Torry, amazed. It was the big fellow only, it proved, who was partly intoxicated. He was a British sailor. His companion was both perfectly sober and perfectly mad. His face was aflame as he and his unwelcome companion approached the four Navy Boys. The big fellow gripped him by the collar of his blouse, and it was utterly impossible for the Yankee lad to get away from “the friendly grip.” “Talk about this ‘hands across the sea’ stuff,” murmured Torrance. “Here’s a case where it is going too far. We’ll have to rescue a brother garby, won’t we?” “Believe me, that’s a reg’lar mamma’s boy Johnny Bull has got his grip on, too,” chuckled Frenchy. “Hush up, you fellows,” advised Phil Morgan, with sudden interest. “I believe I know that fellow.” “Not Goliath yonder?” cried Ikey Rosenmeyer. “I didn’t know you sailed with such craft.” “The other chap,” Morgan explained. “If he’s a friend,” began Torrance, commencing to roll back his sleeves suggestively. “Sit down!” advised the older boy, sharply. “We’d look nice piling onto that big fellow, wouldn’t we?” “And the whole of us couldn’t handle him,” murmured Frenchy. “You never know till you try,” said the optimistic Torrance.